Wherein My Therapist and I Discuss the Giftless Anniversary
My Therapist: It’s the end of your eleventh month.
I: I am a beacon of half-assed achievement.
My Therapist: You are not a phony.
I: I came home white-knuckled and frothing.
My Therapist: Do you know what a thing it is to be not-dead?
I: When I consider old age, I shake and weep.
My Therapist: The Great Beyond is easier when you understand.
I: Death’s spit tastes like rubbing alcohol.
My Therapist: Are you afraid of fear?
I: Death bled out in my arms and I blistered.
My Therapist: It’s been a year since He broke your heart.
I: If I look down when I walk, will my neck snap?
My Therapist: Next week, you and I will discuss The Great Right-Here.
I: I would like to learn all you know of shipwrights.
My Therapist: Then where will you be next Friday morning at ten?